


Reaper's

by deliciously_devient



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Post-Omnic Crisis, Rating will go up, bar au, will add tags as needed, young!Jesse - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 20:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciously_devient/pseuds/deliciously_devient
Summary: Jesse's running from Deadlock. Gabriel offers him a helping hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by my friend's art. Please go check it out.
> 
> http://deadeyeboy.tumblr.com/post/156917492180/gabe-sorry-fella-were-not-open-until-oh

Jesse’s throat was dry and his hands were shaking, and his stomach was reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in three days. His gun was heavy in his pocket, and as he gazed down at his empty gas gauge, and the guilt that tugged at his stomach lessened slightly. He was just gonna do what he had to, to survive. He had half of Deadlock -what remained of it, anyway- after his hide, and four hundred miles between him and then didn’t seem like enough.

None of the stores in this tiny town were open, being so early in the morning it could still technically be late night. But there was a bar, and there was lights on but no cars out front, and Jesse was guessing that it had just closed down. Good. Maybe they’d have enough for him to get out of Texas altogether.

The sign above the door was emblazoned with a skull, and the script read Reaper’s, but it looked nice enough. The saloon style doors were a little at odds with the rest of the decor, but Jesse figured they served his purposes better than a normal door.

He walked in and saw one man at the bar, back turned and beanie on his head. Jesse shoved down the last of his guilt and drew his gun, lifting it with one shaking hand and swallowing, throat clicking when it found nothing in his mouth but desert air and regret.

“Sorry bub, we’re not open again until two in the afternoon,” the man said, placing a bottle back on a high shelf and turning. His reaction to seeing Jesse standing there was confusing; or rather, his non-reaction. He only lifted one eyebrow, smirking slightly and Jesse found his hand shaking a bit more.

“I d-don’t want no trouble,” he said, hating that his voice stuttered and his hand shook, trying to swallow again and failing. The man’s brown eyes seemed to be boring into his, picking him apart and making Jesse’s knees knock slightly. His was a stare of a predator; someone confident in their own skills, and well. Jesse wasn’t a killer.

Not anymore.

“I just want half o’ what you got in the register, and I’ll be on my way,” he said, with more confidence than he felt, and those dark eyes continued to pick him apart. 

“Just half?” the man asked, and he looked deliberately up and down the length of Jesse’s body. Jesse lifted his chin defiantly; he knew what he looked like, what with his ripped and filthy jeans, dirty shirt and face. He felt like he was caked in dirt, and he hadn’t slept in two days, the baying of coyotes driving him awake every time he thought he might get a few winks in.

“I ain’t lookin’ to hurt yer business here. I just need something to get me on by,” Jesse said.

“Hmph,” the man said, and he picked up a rag from the bartop, slowly dragging it along the surface of the already gleaming bar, those dark eyes finally leaving Jesse. “Most people would demand everything in the register,” he said slowly, and Jesse was caught up in those dark eyes again, so much so that he didn’t notice the movement in the man’s shoulder until it was too late.

The damp rag hit him dead in the center of the forehead, covering both eyes for a few precious seconds, and by the time his free hand came up to peel it off, he was already staring down the barrel of his own gun. 

Jesse swallowed again, throat clicking, wondering how the man had moved so fast. This close, he noted the exact shade of brown the man’s skin was, the bulging muscle held tight under a long sleeved shirt.

“You seem like a good kid,” the man said slowly, keeping the barrel of Jesse’s gun pressed against the outlaw’s skin. “How about I offer you an alternative to a life of crime?”

“Ain’t no kid,” Jesse said, reflexively. Again, he thought he should grow out a beard; maybe it would cure the chronic case of baby face he seemed to have.

The man snorted, a soft, derisive noise that made Jesse bristle. “Sure,” he drawled. “How about this, then, kid. I’m short staffed at the moment. Stick around, have a shower, and help me out tonight. Make some honest money.”

Jesse’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted from foot to foot, trying to parse the man’s motives. There was no reason for him to offer something like that; he could easily sell Jesse out to the police, and then he’d really be fucked. They’d ship him off to the same hole a good majority of the living Deadlock members were, and he’d be dead in a week, or less.

Then again, the man had him right now. He could easily have called the police the second he’d disarmed Jesse.

Instead he was offering Jesse a job, and, presumably, a place to stay.

“Why?” Jesse asked, and the man seemed to get it.

With a flourish, he lowered the gun, and removed the clip, before handing it back to Jesse, hilt first. Hesitantly, he wrapped his hand around the handle, taking the weapon back and staring at the man in confusion.

“Let’s just say I have a habit of picking up strays,” the man said cryptically, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

Jesse considered his options. The clip the man had taken was his last; his bike was empty, and he had no real means of getting out of this town, unless he wanted to steal a vehicle, and from what he’d seen, they were all updated hovercars. No easy pickings, and the closest city was a good hundred miles out.

“Jesse McCree,” he said, sticking out his free hand, metal fingers gleaming dully in the low lighting of the bar. The man’s grin became more pronounced, and he wrapped his (much bigger) hand around Jesse’s.

“Gabriel Reyes,” he said, and wrinkled his nose. “Now come on, you need a fucking shower. You smell like you’ve been rolling in trash.”

Jesse laughed. Something tight in his chest loosened just a bit, and he followed behind Gabriel, something like hope blooming in his gut.


End file.
